


Dying, Scarlet

by Lilliburlero



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: Bar Staff, Comment Fic, Ficlet, Gen, Implied Bardolph, Implied Pistol, Minor Character(s), Missing Scene, POV Minor Character, Sugar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:07:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bar staff everywhere entertain revenge fantasies about obnoxious customers.  The Boar's Head is no exception to this rule.</p><p>Content advisory: strong language, misogynistic language, sexual harrassment at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying, Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this exchange](http://thepurposeofplaying.tumblr.com/post/67476168113/lilliburlero-chaoticblades-marshofsleep-i) on Tumblr.

—Cunts.

—Let them wind you up, Frank, and they’ve won.

—They’re still a pair of posh _cunts_.

—Agreed.

—I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do? That pokey-nosed yellow-eyed coulter-jawed ass-voiced streak of pish, talking nonsense to me, asking me how old I am, how long my contract has to run, what the fuck business is it of his, the creep—

                —what time you get off tonight—?

— _Not_ fucking funny, Will. No. Didn’t you hear me say? That seedy ginger cunt was with him, shrieking at me from the back room the whole time, that’s the point.

—Tish- _boom_. 

—What?

—Poin—oh, never mind.

—Oh. I get it. _Still not funny_. 

—Doesn’t mean he—they—weren’t trying to pick you up, neither. Be one for the grandkids, that, the time you had a threes—

—And how did _you_ get to be so fucking expert about their little ways, may I ask, eh?

—Calm down. They’ve tried it on with everyone. There’s nothing the fuck you can do.

—I’d just like to give them a good kicking, that’s all. Give us a pull on that, mate. Cheers. Oh well, once more unto the breach, eh?

—Hang on.

—Nah, you’re probably right. Not fucking worth it, is it?

—No, hang on. We shouldn’t stand for it. 

—What we going to do? I can hear Nellie laughing already, like a hyena with a fucking downpipe installed, just imagine it: _please Missis Quickly, the Prince of Wales was trying to give me shhhuuuggggaaaaar, Missis Quickly_ —

—Not that crocked old bint. What could she do? We should be taking it to the top.

—The top being _where_ exactly, mate? What bit of _heir to the throne of England_ don’t you fucking understand? 

—He isn’t fucking arrow-proof. Not that I’m suggesting… It’s the long game you want to be playing, Frankie boy. 

—Yeah, yeah. We gotta—the Pomgarnet’s heaving and Ralph’s on his own.

—You just see.

—Ah, man, how many times have we planned revenge during our breaks, and we never fucking go through with a bit of it, do we, just get it all off our chests and get on with our lives? I feel sorry for the fuckers, nothing better to do with theirs.

—Nah, this time it’s different. This time I’m fucking doing it. Thing is, it’s got to be someone they won’t connect with us—someone who might be prepared to take a—Will smashed his fist into his palm vehemently—we can stand back and watch— _served cold_.

—Yeah, well, it’ll be that fat bastard’s capon served cold if we don’t get it out there, and then we’ll be in the shit for that and all—poor what gets the blame, Will, come the fuck _on_.

It’s a pretty good night for tips and Frank’s having a bit of banter, it could be worse. There’s a lock-in, and he has a few as he scoots around, nothing major, he doesn’t want to be tripping over his own feet, but it cheers him up. Then that bloody crowd start acting up again, but this time it’s nothing to do with him, and someone calls the cops, which is always a fucking nuisance all right, but they get just about everybody out the back in time and let the toffs deal with their own fucking shitstorm. Frank reckons they’ve got theirs and forgets about it. Nell will be whingeing for days, though. She hates trouble, even though she never stops courting it. Like that bloke, the one who’s always talking funny and grabbing his crotch at her. She seems to like it, mad old cow, well, got to take what you can get at her age. If you gave old Nellie the Elephant one you’d want to have your name and address tattooed on the soles of your feet, Ralph says. 

By the time Frank finishes washing the last lot of mugs, Will already has the tables in the bar scrubbed and the floor mopped. There’s a guy still sitting down over a full pint. Jesus, the face on him. Not just a drinker’s nose but one of those that’s all gnarled like a knob celery and the colour of carrots. Will shakes the bloke’s hand with a honk of laughter, slaps him on the back, and heads over to to his colleague wearing the biggest fucking shit-eating grin Frank has ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> Until the end of the seventeenth century, carrots were usually purple in colour. As regards historical accuracy on other matters, I haven't really paid any attention at all; feel free to read this as a modern AU.


End file.
